I am pregnant. I go for a scan, and the baby is gone. I am not pregnant. There never was a baby. The baby is in my hand, the size of a kitten, and clearly dead.
I am not pregnant. I am hunting for a doll in an entire city of discarded toys. It has a soul, and I have to find it before it turns back into a doll, or the emperor of the city of thrown-away, unloved toys will keep it forever. I am running down alleyways between twenty-storey towers of boxes.
I am giving birth. The baby is laid on my pillow. I turn to look at it, and accidentally knock it onto the floor. They take it away at once, and refuse to bring it back. I cry and cry.
H has gone away. I have a shoe-box. I am carrying it to the little cemetery near my childhood home. Why has H gone away? Why am I doing this alone? The shoe-box is very light. I am nearly at the cemetery gate. It is raining. I drop the shoe-box, and something tiny rolls out into the mud. I can’t see where it went.